


Stepping In

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Consent Issues, Dark, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, HP: Epilogue Compliant, Het, Incest, Mental Health Issues, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath, the lines start to blur, and she starts stepping in where she should leave well enough alone. <br/> Note: This is extremely dark. Proceed with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stepping In

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 22nd 2013 at HP Fandom, on what would have been my mother's 46th birthday. Edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> In this case, JKR and everyone else (myself included!) should be grateful that they don't belong to me. 
> 
> Final warning: This is dark, and deeply disturbing. If you are not down with that, use the backspace button!

I’ve always adored my father, and as his only daughter, he doted on me. He certainly loved and lavished attention on Al and James, but I was his Lily. It made me special to my mum, too.   
  
My dad has always been a family man—mum and us kids were his whole world. It was why he never got into the Auror field: he said he didn’t want to risk losing what mattered most to him. His restaurant may not have been glamorous, but I was always proud of him.   
  
That was why even after I graduated from Hogwarts, I still lived at home. I hadn’t found exactly what I wanted to do with my life, so for now I was just giving Dad a hand with the restaurant. Mum was harping on at me to find a nice wizard and settle down, or go get a career. It never mattered a whit that I was constantly trying for both. As far as blokes went, though, none of them could ever compare to my dad. Not his fame, obviously, but that wasn’t how I measured. My dad has a big heart, a generous nature, and seemed to always glow with a love of life. No one else seemed to have that, and not only was it what I most loved about my dad, it was what I most wanted to find in my own chappie.  
  
As for a career, well . . . I’d tried a few larks, tried to see what I’d fancy, but couldn’t seem to find the perfect fit. I wasn’t worried, though. I knew I’d find what I was meant for sooner or later. I just think it really hacked off my mum just how little it bothered me, honestly.   
  
Of course, these days, thoughts like that tend to make me cry. And I know that if I said it, my dad _would_ cry, and I can’t do that to him. Life for him is more than hard enough. I mean, I know that it always was, but . . . losing his wife? And in such a bloody stupid accident? It broke him.   
  
Ever since then, I’ve been trying so hard to help him, to fill in the holes she left behind. I still help with the restaurant, just like always, but now I’m also cooking dinner, and doing the washing up and his laundry and fighting uselessly with his hair. I know he appreciates it, and I hope that it’s enough.   
  
Then, I hear him crying one night, and I know that it’s not. I hear his muffled sobs, and it tears at my heart. I’d do anything to take that pain away if I could.   
  
So I decide that I can, and I will.   
  
The first night I slip into his bed, I’m a little nervy. People have always told me that I look just like my mum, but I have my dad’s eyes. I hope he won’t notice in the dark that my eyes are green instead of blue. I’m also worried he’ll notice that I’m too young, too slender, to be his wife.   
  
To my surprise, the plan works perfectly. Between the dark and the fact that he’s only half-there, he doesn’t notice the differences. As I run my hands over him and move with him, I realize that none of the men I’ve dated could ever compare to him. When he goes back to sleep, I stroke the hair away from his eyes before slipping from the bed.   
  
The next morning, there's peace in his eyes—something I haven’t seen since she died. I know, right in that moment where he smiles at me and hands me a cup of tea that I’ve done the right thing. Anything that puts that soft, sweet smile on his mouth and that peace in his eyes will always be the right thing.   
  
Which is why I slip into his bed again, and again, and again.   
  
  



End file.
